


A Small Corner of the World

by Kittycrackers (Calacious)



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Animal AU, Cruelty to Animals, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Personification, almost a parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Kittycrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chibs has staked his claim on a small corner of the world and he aims to keep it. When Tig happens along, the world as Chibs knows it kind of tilts on its axis. Cat and dog AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Corner of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This story mentions animal abuse and an animal shelter which has less than ideal standards. Not all shelters are like this, and this by no means reflects what I believe to be present in the vast majority of today's animal shelters. Where I live, there are only no kill shelters in place for animals, and at the time that I wrote this, I was surrounded by animals rescued from a shelter - the cat who inspired the fic in the first place, and two dogs.
> 
> Originally written for the cotton candy bingo square - the making of new friends and the hurt_comfort bingo square - hostile climate. 
> 
> Just getting around to posting this here. Working on a second 'chapter' for this which will feature (if things go the way I want them to) slash, but between the human characters in the story.

Chibs sat with his back to the brick wall, scanning the darkness with his one working eye. The winds were cold, biting through the layers right down to his skin. He shivered, but kept up his silent vigil, because the night was not empty. Danger lurked within the shadows, and he could sense an evil presence lingering just outside the scope of his single-eyed vision.  
  
Chibs hadn't always lived on the streets. He'd had a home, a family that: loved, fed and cared for him. He didn’t like to dwell upon his past, though, because he missed the warmth, and the sense of belonging that he’d had when he’d been with his family.  
  
He didn’t like to think about when he’d been known as Filip, the cat, as opposed to the tough, streetwise, Chibs, the terror of the alley between 9th and 10th Avenue. Here, he was never warm. The cold was always biting. It was dark, even in daylight, and the world was cruel. Humans were no longer friends, no longer family. They were an enemy without equal. Kindness, on the streets, was scarce, if not nonexistent.  
  
Shortly after he’d been evicted from his home, an elderly woman had left him a bowl of milk and a can of tuna on her front stoop. She did this for several weeks, and then it stopped, suddenly, and Chibs learned not to count on such handouts, though he went back daily, only to turn his then fully intact tail up in the air, snubbing the old woman for ceasing her act of kindness. His stomach had grumbled and he grew thin and weary, his bitterness toward the world increased monumentally as a result.    
  
It wasn’t until a week later, that Chibs learned the old lady had died. He watched, from his hideout beneath the porch, as her body - desiccated and maggot-infested - was wheeled away to an awaiting ambulance.   
  
Humans weren’t worth the effort it took to care for them. He decided, then and there, that he wouldn’t take another thing from the hand of a human, kind or otherwise. Though, he wasn’t above pilfering from them from time-to-time. Chibs learned soon enough that it was all part and parcel of the game of survival.   
  
Humans were fragile, volatile and changeable creatures, and Chibs had had enough of them. They were good for nothing. He had nothing to do with them, other than capitalizing upon their innate wastefulness.  
  
  
Trash cans and dumpsters were his mainstays. Rats, mice and other vermin weren’t ideal dining fare. He hated that his stomach couldn’t digest everything - the tough, furry hides and bones -  and the inevitable regurgitative process often left him feeling spent and ill for hours afterwards.  
  
Chibs bristled when something moved just outside of the range of his vision, jogging him from his memories. He scooted further back against the wall. It was his little corner of the world, and he’d defend it to the death if need be. It had been his for going on two years now, and he’d  
earned it by fighting long, hard, and at times, dirty.  
  
He’d lost the tip of an ear to the battle - leaving it a ragged, bloody edge which had grown infected and then been infested with fleas which never had left, even after the tear had healed. He’d grown used to them, though. They too were just trying to mark their stake in a world which didn’t seem to want them.  
  
Chibs narrowed his lone eye and let out a hiss of air when he picked up the stench of blood and piss on the encroaching intruder well before he could make out the shape of him. He  figured that the age old adage about losing one sense making the other senses stronger was true, because his sense of smell had definitely been heightened after he’d lost his eye to the  
local butcher who’d taken a broom to him, but good, when he’d been after the man’s scraps.  
  
Chibs added a low growl to the hiss when the trespasser continued to approach him.  
  
The mangy cur was either brave or stupid, and Chibs was betting on the latter, because anyone who was anyone around these parts knew who he was and kept a wide berth of his territory.  
  
 _Dog,_ he chuffed and licked at his right paw - the one opposite his lost eye.  
  
To the human observer, such a move would seem nonchalant and maybe even ‘cute’. But, in the animal kingdom, it was clear that Chibs was showing the newcomer how sharp and deadly his claws were, because with each swipe of his pink tongue, he’d flash a little more of his recently sharpened claws. Showing how easily they could tear into flesh and muscle, and even maim, or render an opponent lame as he’d done to a younger Tom who’d thought that he  
could take on the older cat and win the prized corner at the end of the alley.  
  
That fight hadn’t lasted long, and the young lad would be walking with a limp for the rest of his ungrateful life, provided that the wound to his shoulder didn’t kill him from the inevitable infection.  
  
 _Go away,_ Chibs’ voice rumbled in his chest and he flattened his ears against his head - the  
edge of the torn ear remained stiff and disobediently straight, yet it took nothing away from the  fierceness of his stature.  
  
Chibs knew from experience _and_ reputation that he looked, not only mean, but also downright terrifying - like something straight out of the insane asylum from a couple streets down. He’d once seen himself reflected in a murky puddle, just after a downpour, and had given _himself_ a fright.  
  
The fact that the dog continued its advance as though facing a mere fly, caused Chibs’ fur to bristle in an attempt to make himself look bigger in the face of a foe who was in fact larger than him. He’d played this ruse before, and won many a campaign against a larger, stronger enemy. He was counting on it to work this time as well.  
  
Chibs stood to his full height, keeping to the corner because it gave him an advantage and helped him keep an eye, the only eye he had, on his adversary. He arched his back, and yowled low and loud, a sound which echoed off the pavement of the street and caused someone in an apartment above the alley to shut her bedroom window with a resounding bang.  
  
 _Leave,_ he howled and spat at the dog.  
  
Chibs liked to think that he knew his dog breeds, and there was nothing special about the mongrel – a medium-sized dog with matted brown fur – approaching him. It wasn't some fancy, pedigree dog, but a plain, run of the mill mutt, not worth wasting his time on, except for the fact that the dog kept approaching him, heedless of the warnings that Chibs was giving him.  
  
Chibs licked at his paw and showed a little more claw. He wasn't afraid of any dog, and had given many a dog what for when they’d had the audacity to approach him in his corner. There was a bulldog who’d be bearing a three clawed scar on his muzzle for the rest of his miserable little, small-minded life for trying to roust Chibs from the alley.  
  
Chibs hissed at the dog, warning him one more time, and then he launched himself at the mutt - claws out and fighting like he was feral, and, maybe, after all this time, he was. He struck the dog’s nose and tore through the leathery skin, making his opponent bleed.   
  
It wasn’t until his other claw tore a chunk out of the dog’s right shoulder, that he realized his adversary wasn’t fighting back, but rather cowering and folding in on himself. The dog was giving up, and that gave Chibs pause, because this had never happened before, and he didn’t know what to make of it.  
  
Most dogs were stupidly brave, and even after being severely warned, they kept on coming. Chibs had almost killed a dog once because the bastard just wouldn’t stop, even when he’d been blinded and his hide had been scored to a bloody pulp. Never had Chibs, in all his years, faced a foe who’d quit before the fight had even begun.  
xxx  
Tig was lost and his body ached all over from his latest ‘punishment.’ He’d run away from his master and hadn’t wanted to go back, but now that it was starting to get dark, he realized that it was cold and he was hungry and that he missed his master. He knew that his master didn’t  
mean to hurt him when he got angry, and that, most of the time it was his fault.  
  
Today, though, Tig hadn’t done anything wrong - he hadn’t touched the master’s shoes,  
or gotten into the pantry, or messed with the toilet paper- and he didn’t understand why he was being beaten. His master’s voice had been loud and had hurt his ears. Tig couldn’t even understand all of the man’s words, they’d been slurred by that strange liquid that smelled like poison and burned his tongue (he’d lapped it up off the floor once when it had spilled from his master’s glass, and it had given him strange dreams and made him feel sick).  
  
All he knew was that, if he didn’t get away from the master’s fists and feet, he’d be a dead dog. He’d run and run until he could run no further, and his legs gave out, and then he’d looked around and realized that he had no idea where he was.  
  
He tried to use his nose, pushing it into the pavement, to trace his way back, but his nose wasn’t working properly, for all he could smell was blood.  
  
Tig hobbled along the sidewalk, his feet ached and his eyes didn’t work well - they kept giving him double-images of everything he saw. The humans that he approached shouted or pushed him away roughly, one had even kicked him in the stomach, hard.  
  
All he wanted to do was find his way home and get back into his master’s good graces,  
because his master could be kind and loving when he wasn’t angry. He was a decent man, most of the time, and Tig was sorry that he’d left him. He only hoped that, when he found his way home, that his master would forgive him and take him back, even though he didn’t deserve the kindness.  
  
Tig was a - _despicable, no good, stupid, fucking mutt_ \- words he’d heard fall from his master’s lips repeatedly. He didn't really know what they meant, but they’d always given him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and made him try all that much harder to please the man he’d sworn loyalty to when he’d been rescued him from ‘death row.’  
  
The master could’ve chosen any dog that day, but he’d chosen Tig, who’d been passed  
over by countless people. Families with young children shunned him, older couples didn’t even glance his way, and those who were single backed away from his cage as though afraid of him.  
  
His first family had incarcerated him in the pound, doggy hell, when they’d had a baby. He was too big, cost too much money to care for, and they were afraid that, when the child got older, he’d hurt it. Tig wouldn’t have though, but no amount of his trying to appeal to his humans had mattered, and what was supposed to be a ride to the park was a ride straight to captivity and hell.  
  
Tig hated the pound. It was rough and the other dogs weren’t friendly. Those who were friendly got hurt or were labeled as weak, but they were the ones who got adopted. He really didn’t have much of a chance of that though. He had been put in with other dogs of his size, and they were mean, nasty beings.  
  
He’d learned right away not to turn his back on anyone, no matter how friendly he seemed at first. He also learned that it was every dog for himself, especially at meal times. He never got enough to eat, even when he managed to get to one of the feeding troughs first.  
  
By the time that he was adopted, he was living on borrowed time - the death machine  
had gone on the fritz the day of his scheduled execution. He had lost so much weight that his ribs could be counted and his coat, already thin, was patchy and dry in spots. He looked a mess, and every bit as mean as his previous owners had feared he’d become. He’d had to become mean, because otherwise, he’d have suffered more indignities at the whims of the other older, more streetwise, dogs he’d been jailed with.  
  
He was scarred and skittish by the time the man had stopped outside of his cage. His eyes had scanned the man, and then written him off as a lost cause, because Tig was past caring, and he was ready to die.  
  
He was tired of fighting, tired of the ever-present hunger that gnawed at his insides, and tired of always being looked over and thought of as ‘evil’ because of what he looked like on the outside - ugly and dangerous. He was a low-class mutt, a boxer, German Shepherd, shar pei mix. The only thing he had going for him was his coloring - brindle - and his piercing blue eyes, which made people think that he might have some husky in him.  
  
When the man chose him, not even his stub of a tail had twitched. Daily rejection had taken its toll on him; his heart could only handle so much. The new master had handled him with care, had nursed him back to health, and Tig had started to feel safe once again.  
  
Tig can’t even remember what he’d done to earn his first beating. He remembered each blow, though, recalled them, often in his sleep, and would wake, kicking at the air, to the sound of his master laughing at his, _antics._  
  
The master assumed that he was running in his sleep or playing fetch. Tig hadn’t the heart to attempt to explain what he’d really remembered and how it made his heart race in his chest, like one of his cohorts chasing after a car that he never had a hope in Kerberos, of catching, no matter how fast he could run. It was like chasing after an illusive dream.  
  
Tig also remembered what had happened afterward, how his master had begged his forgiveness, kneeling beside him and weeping as he’d tended to Tig’s wounds. Tig had readily forgiven the man, kissing his face and nudging him with his wet nose until the man had smiled. His master was prone, as all men are, to human weakness and vice, and Tig figured that he couldn’t hold it against him.  
  
The beatings had grown more frequent over the years, and Tig soon learned to link them to the foul smelling liquid that tasted like fire - his master’s vice of choice. Still, he knew he had it better than other dogs - he had a roof over his head, plenty of food, and his master always sought his forgiveness, on bended knee, afterward.  
  
The man’s wrath rarely lasted longer than a night, save for the time that Tig had chewed up his slippers and his favorite pair of boots, and then crapped in the middle of his bed. It had been an ill-played retribution for being locked out of the bedroom when the master had a vulgar creature spend the night. She had reeked of stale cigarette smoke, booze that was far too sweet to be any good, at least by Tig’s narrow standards (he only had the master’s booze to judge by, after all), and something rotten.  
  
He was grateful that the master hadn’t entertained her as a sexual conquest for long - as it was, it had been long enough, and his master had been given plenty of cause to punish him verbally and physically. Tig and the woman’s hatred for each other had been mutual. She’d wanted the master to get rid of him, and Tig had wanted to kill the fulsome creature. He’d dreamt of ripping her throat out and supping on her blood.  
  
Now, though, Tig wished that he’d stayed and taken the beating. Even if his master had killed him, as he’d feared the man would do this time, it would be better than wandering the cold streets like a common beggar. He couldn’t go back to the pound, he’d be killed. No one would take a broken, ugly bastard of a dog like him into their home.  
  
When his back legs gave out, Tig sat on the sidewalk, and he considered his options. It was now almost too dark for Tig to see well. Street lights flickered to life. The foot traffic on the sidewalk had grown sparse. Few cars traversed the street. He could drag himself out into the street and wait for a car to take him out, but his hair prickled at the very thought of that. He wasn’t a coward, no matter what his lot in life.  
  
Starvation, though it was not an option he relished, was what he had to look forward to.  
He’d felt it clawing at his belly during his stint at the pound, and he was afraid, but he swallowed his fear. He’d gotten himself into this mess by running away rather than bearing his master’s heavy hand, and he had no other choice but to live until he died - his belly shriveled to nothing, his hide coarse as worn leather, and his bones poking through his skin. It wasn’t a  
pretty picture, but then again, Tig had never been a pretty dog.    
  
He doubted there was a human who would take pity on him, even if he did stoop to begging for food. Tig drew in as deep a breath as he could and coughed when something shifted in his chest. He was hurt on the inside, perhaps he’d die from whatever damage his master had done to his body before he starved to death.  
  
It was that hope, meager as it was, which gave him the strength to get his back legs up underneath him and aid in carrying his weight. He staggered at first, nearly bumping into a human’s leg. The human made a disgusted sound and swerved out of the way. Tig didn’t bother to growl, he was focused on a single goal, and that was to disappear into the darkness of an alley that was a few paces to his left.  
  
Tig was so intent upon reaching his goal that he didn’t realize he’d long since attained it until he heard a low growling sound followed by an impressively terrifying hiss. ‘Cat,’ his mind supplied for him a little too late to be of much help. As a general rule, Tig didn’t much care for cats. They’d never so much as given him the time of day.  
  
He figured that the whole lot of them were haughty, snooty, stuck-up scoundrels, looking out only for number one. They didn’t give their loyalty to any master, other than themselves. They were nothing like dogs. As such, cats couldn’t be trusted. And besides, those Tig had met in the pound had been downright nasty to him. One had given him the scar that he bore on his cheek. The deep gouge had bled freely for a long time before the human caretakers at the pound had seen to it.  
  
Tig narrowed his eyes, hoping to be able to see better into the dark corner of the alley he’d  sought solace in. He had very little by the way of night vision, and was colorblind to boot. He didn’t want to have a run-in with a cat, not when he was practically blind, and could barely hold his head upright from pain and shame.  
  
Tig just wanted a place to lie down and rest his weary body for a little while. Maybe in the morning, he’d be able to retrace his steps home and re-earn his master’s favor. Until then, he needed nothing more than a small corner of the world in which to sleep. In the grand scheme of things, he figured that it wasn’t too much to ask for.   
  
He opened his mouth to ask the cat if he, or she, would be willing to share the corner of the alley for the night, when several things happened all at once, and Tig was even worse off than he had been had he stayed in his master’s home. Or at least that’s how he felt when he was nursing his damaged nose and right shoulder.   
  
_Don’t want any trouble,_ Tig whimpered as he tried to back away from the savage beast, which, while it was about the size of his hind quarter was nothing but claws and sass from what he could tell.   
  
He rounded his shoulders, trying to curl up so that the cat wouldn’t be able to catch him in the face again. Right now he didn’t care how he looked, backing down from a common alleycat, because there weren’t many worse ways he could die than at the claws of some furious feline.   
  
Tig would be the laughing stock of the entire canine community if any dog could see him now. But, his will to survive far outweighed his need to fit in with his peers, so he kept his body low to the ground and backed away as best he could. He’d never really ‘fit in’ with his own kind anyway.   
  
_Stop,_ the cat hissed, and Tig stopped moving with his back left paw still in the air.  
  
Tig’s muscles were drawn so taut that it felt like the slightest movement would snap them. His heart was beating loudly in his ears, and he just knew that he was a goner. The angry cat was closing in on him, and Tig flashed on his master - the man’s hand uprisen,ready to strike; his face a blotchy white; pupils dark, tiny pinpricks that couldn’t sustain light; and fetid breath that stank of the fiery liquid and vomit.  
  
 _Sorry, didn’t mean it._ Tig clinched his eyes shut and his back paw dropped to the wet pavement.   


* * *

  
_What the hell’s a matter with you?_ Chibs eyed the cowed dog and tapped him with a paw.   
  
The dog’s flesh shivered beneath Chibs’ touch, though it was light and he had retracted his claws. Chibs wasn’t sure whether he should treat the dog as an adversary or a mouse and was half attempted to bat at its ears just to see how it would react. ‘Might be fun to toy with,’ Chibs thought.  
  
The dog’s legs seemed to give way beneath Chibs’ paw, and it flattened itself against the dirty ground. It was downright comical and Chibs chuckled. The dog’s legs were all sprawled out and the mutt was stretched out like a puppy on its belly.  
  
 _You’re a strange one,_ Chibs chuffed out.   
  
He’d only seen such actions in the very young before, and, even after years of living on the streets, he had a soft spot for bairn. Bast knows that he shouldn’t have a soft spot left anywhere in him for anyone or anything, least of all an idiot dog.   
  
The dog opened a single eye and peered up at him. Chibs finally understood what was meant by the term, ‘puppy dog eyes,’ even though the dog was only looking at him from one of the blue devils. It was every bit as potent as he’d heard humans claimed it was in their idle chatter.   
  
Chibs frowned and lifted his paw from where he’d placed it on top of the dog’s head. He sat back on his haunches and studied the creature. Though he only had one eye, it was in full functioning order, and now that he had stepped back a little, he could see that the dog was rather severely injured.   
  
Aside from the chunk of flesh that Chibs had taken from the mutt’s shoulder, and the bleeding nose, the dog’s hide was covered in a series of raised welts. The cheek, just beneath the dog’s left eye had a thin scar, that, if Chibs wasn’t mistaken, had been delivered by a precise swipe of a cat’s claw.  
  
 _What’s yer name?_   
  
Chibs’ question was rewarded with the opening of the second eye. Together, the sapphire blue eyes made for one hell of a powerful kick to the gut.   
  
‘A cat moved by puppy dog eyes should be an abomination, somewhere,’ Chibs thought, and then he sighed and rolled his eye.  
  
 _Tig._ The dog’s voice was little more than a low sough.  
  
When he stepped closer and stooped down so that he was eye to eye with Tig, Chibs could see the pain reflected in the dog’s eyes.   
  
‘Killer puppy dog eyes and the dog also wears his heart right out in the open, reflected in those damnable eyes.’ Chibs cursed himself for what he was about to do, because it wasn’t smart and there were many who would say that it wasn’t right.  
  
 _Name’s Chibs,_ he introduced himself to the dog and then sat and waited for a response.  
  
Tig gave him a wary look and slowly gathered his legs up underneath himself - like a chair unfolding. Chibs wondered at how gracefully the injured dog moved. One minute the dog was hugging the pavement and the next, Tig was sitting up, facing him.   
  
_Sorry I bothered you,_ Tig said, _I’ll leave._  
  
The dog made to stand, but his hind legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and, in any case, he looked to be in agony. It made Chibs’, heretofore stone cold, heart ache.   
  
_Doesn’t look like you’ll be going anywhere tonight,_ Chibs said.   
  
He shrugged and licked one of his paws, like it didn’t matter to him one way or another. As if whatever the dog, Tig, decided to do didn’t mean anything to Chibs. What was sobering and terrifying to him was that it did mean something and he felt as though it would make a very big difference if Tig got up and walked out of the alley, leaving him behind.   
  
It felt to Chibs as though something in the very fabric of the universe had shifted. And, though he wasn’t aware of it at the time, that shift had begun the very moment that Tig had limped into his alley. Their lives, for ill or for good, were now forever intertwined. Until they each met their end, Chibs had a ken that they’d never part ways.   
  
_Just give me a minute and I’ll get out of your way,_ Tig grunted. He was putting all of his effort into his failed attempts to stand, gritting his teeth in a fashion that made him look fierce and dangerous.   
  
_Look, why don’t you be a good dog and stay?_ Chibs couldn’t resist the gibe. He grinned when Tig glared at him, but stopped trying to stand.   
  
_I ain’t a good dog,_ Tig growled. Chibs decided that it was a good, solid sound - much better than the whimper from earlier.   
  
_‘Course you are,_ Chibs clucked _,_ and he licked at a patch of fur on his shoulder, dispelling one of the veteran fleas from his perch.   
  
_Ain’t,_ Tig countered, and he laid down, groaning as his wounds were jostled.  
  
 _Who told you that load of rubbish?_ Chibs narrowed his eye at the dog, and, without turning his back on Tig, because, altered universe or not, it was not wise to turn one’s back on a dog when one was a cat, he sauntered the few footsteps back to his corner.   
  
_Master,_ Tig barked softly.  
  
Chibs hissed at the term, Master. It had never sat well with him. It pointed to human superiority. He bristled and his whiskers twitched, and he growled.   
  
_Tell me, yer master do that to you?_ Chibs butted his head into one of the raised welts along Tig’s back, eliciting a pain-filled moan from the dog.  
  
 _Nothing that I didn’t deserve,_ Tig bit out.  
  
 _I’m sure._ Chibs’ words were laced with every bit of sarcasm that he could muster. _What’d you do, tear off one of the bastard’s testicles?_  
  
Tig gave him a look filled with horror at the very thought, and shook his head. His blue eyes were doleful. Chibs realized that he had his work cut out for him.  
  
 _Ye didn’t deserve what yer master did to ye,_ Chibs said. _C’mere._  
  
Tig looked at him as though he was expecting Chibs to take another chunk out of him, and Chibs couldn’t blame him. He’d heard of ‘pets’ being abused by their ‘masters’ before; most of the cats and dogs living on the streets had come from abusive homes. Chibs knew that he’d have to tread very carefully until he broke Tig of the bad habits he’d learned from living with humans.   
  
_I said, c’mere,_ Chibs snarled.   
  
And, okay, so he didn’t mean for it to come out as a command, but apparently it did because Tig belly-crawled his way over to Chibs and planted his head on his front paws and stared up at him as though awaiting his next order. Chibs drew in a deep breath and groaned inwardly.   
  
_Sleep,_ Chibs meowed around a yawn.   
  
It had been a long, hard day spent filching from the chum buckets at the wharf - many a fisherman had tried, without success, to spear him through. Now that he, and his corner, were in no immediate danger, Chibs could let his guard down, though not completely. He always slept with his one working eye open.   
  
Tig lifted a brow and tilted his head. He gave a little whinny of a whine and then wriggled his body. Chibs simply stared at him, wondering what the hell the dog was up to. Dogs were strange, dumb creatures half of the time. Bast only knew what they were thinking, and what made them tick, and why on earth was the dog was creeping closer and closer to him until Tig’s snout was touching his front paw?  
  
Chibs arched his back and regarded Tig skeptically. Perhaps he was wrong about this altered universe. Maybe he should kick the dog to the curb and reclaim his small corner of the world for himself. To hell with anyone else.   
  
_Sorry,_ Tig sniffed and he wriggled a little more, shifting his weight this way and that. His hips moving in first one direction and then another, and then he was moving forward again and Chibs was pressed as far into his corner as he could possibly get with Tig’s nose right up in his personal space.   
  
_What’re ye doin’?_  
  
Chibs could feel the dog’s hot breath on his fur. It was a strange, surreal feeling, and not at all comfortable. For one thing, the dog’s breath stank, and for another, Tig’s torn nose was still dripping blood.  
  
 _Trying to get comfortable,_ Tig sighed and yawned, his breath was like a heatwave and Chibs tried breathing through his mouth so that he wouldn’t have to smell that awful doggie breath smell.   
  
_Are you almost done?_ Chibs gave the dog a look that he hoped communicated just what he thought of Tig’s attempts to, ‘get comfortable.’  
  
Tig nodded, apparently too sleepy to speak, but his body kept twitching and his warm breath continued to waft over Chibs, bathing him in doggie breath and warmth. Chibs shuddered as a slow realization dawned on him. His back half, the side stuck in the corner of the alley, was cold while his front half was warm, bordering on hot.   
  
Chibs almost didn’t remember what the sensation of warmth felt like, it had been so long. He blinked and then casually repositioned himself, little-by-little, working his way closer to Tig in tiny increments of movement that he hoped the dog didn’t notice.   
  
Tig, for his part merely yawned and then scooched over just far enough for Chibs to lie down beside him. And, no, he wasn’t cuddling, not with a dog. Cuddling with a dog was undignified. Bast would disown him as her servant for sure were she to look down upon him and see him lying with a dog of all unseemly creatures.   
  
Except, well, it had been ages since he’d been warm, and surely she wouldn’t fault her servant for stealing some of the warmth that Tig seemed to generate like he was some kind of living, breathing heating machine. Chibs wondered if all dogs were like that, but then, when Tig’s body wriggled yet again so that the dog was, for all intents and purposes, wrapped around him like an electric blanket, he didn’t care if all dogs were hot as a furnace or not. All that mattered was that Tig was, and for the first time in forever, Chibs felt a rumble form in the pit of his stomach, and the next thing he knew, he was purring.   
  
He would’ve told Tig to keep quiet about this, and that it didn’t mean anything, that it was a natural instinct, but his words were stolen by a jaw cracking yawn and his one eye slipped closed so that just a slit of the yellow of his iris was showing.   
  
Even with a dog curled around him, Chibs couldn’t let his guard down. There were still dangers lurking in the shadows, and Tig was not seasoned in the ways of life on the street. Chibs would school him, however, starting first thing in the morning.   
  
Chibs slept whenever he could, and though cats were purported to be nocturnal animals, in reality, they slept at least two-thirds of the day away. Since he’d started living on the street, Chibs hadn’t been able to get a good, sound sleep. Always having to be on the alert, he’d left the concept of dreams far behind, and focused solely on sneaking in short, not exactly restful, catnaps whenever he could.  
  
With Tig’s warm body pressing around him on all fronts, and the dog’s hot, albeit fetid, breath ghosting over him, Chibs could no longer stave off sleep. Warm, and purring for the first time in years, Chibs fell into a sound sleep, thinking that, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have a dog around after all.   
  
Tig, for his part was content to share just a small corner of the world. He didn’t like to be alone, and, though Chibs wasn’t a human and he wasn’t a dog, Tig figured that, as far as masters went, maybe Chibs wouldn’t be half that bad.   
  
_I ain’t your master,_ Chibs murmured sleepily, as though he’d read Tig’s thoughts, or maybe Tig had voiced them aloud without really meaning to. The cat snuggled further into the cocoon Tig had thoughtfully made for him, and Tig fell asleep to the rumbly sound of purring and with a small beacon of hope burning in his heart.


End file.
